Top Gun (23 page)

“So the treasuries of France and England will ultimately bear the burden of GAT’s financial bailout?”

Gold nodded.

“Son of a bitch,” Linda whispered, licking Gold’s ear. “You’re one smart cookie for a love stud.”

“Well, I just had the general idea,” Gold demurred. “Don’s the one who was able to supply the financial specifics that turned
my concept into a reality.” He paused. “Of course, the love-stud part is all my own.”

“You practice a lot?” Linda asked, her lips still nuzzling his ear.

“Whenever I’m alone.”

Linda laughed, moving away from him to rummage through her purse for her cigarettes. “But what I still don’t understand is
why you seem to have such mixed emotions about your victory. It was a tremendous coup on your part, but from the way you’re
acting someone would think that you were the one who lost.”

“Maybe I did lose in a way.…”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Linda demanded as Gold lit her cigarette.

“I didn’t play fair, Linda.”

She nodded. “Okay, then. Let’s go through it. Was what you did necessary to win this battle or negotiation or whatever you
want to call it?”

“Yes.”

“Can you think of any other way you could have won?”

“No.”

“Then there you go,” Linda said. “At the risk of sounding overly western, a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do” She winked.
“Capeesh?”

“Capeesh,”
Gold echoed, smiling slightly. “What kind of western lingo is that?”

“Spaghetti western,” she said brightly.

“Ah.” Gold took a swallow of scotch.

Linda, watching him, suddenly said, “I know what’s
really
bothering you.”

“You do, huh?” Gold looked at her.

“Uh-huh.” She kissed him lightly on the cheek. “You see, I remember what you told me that afternoon we ran into each other
at the trade show six months ago; what you told me after we made love at your beach house. You told me about how Tim Campbell
had implied that back in the fifties your father had played dirty pool, using his CIA connections to win the competition between
his GAT 909 jetliner and Tim Campbell’s perfectly good Amalgamated Landis AL-12 by unjustly tarnishing that airplane’s reputation.
You’d checked the story out with Don and had found out it was true.”

“You’ve got a very good memory, young lady,” Gold said sourly.

“Reporters need to remember most everything they hear,” Linda replied. “Anyway, back then your father indulged in mudslinging
because the stakes were high and his company’s survival was at stake. Today, you threatened to use the same mudslinging tactics
against Skytrain’s Pont jetliner.”

“Pretty rotten of me, huh?”

“It depends on how you look at it,” Linda said. “This time around the stakes were equally high for GAT, but only you can decide
if you did the right thing by doing what you had to do for the sake of your company.”

Gold felt like crying. “All my life I’ve lived according to a personal moral construct.”

“A code of honor,” Linda suggested.

“Yeah, a military code of honor, I guess you’d call it,” Gold murmured. “It worked for me because in the Air Force it was
easy for me to see things in terms of black and white.” He smiled wistfully. “Out here in the civilian world, the lighting
isn’t so good. White is becoming increasingly gray.” He took Linda’s hand. “There’s who I always tried to be, and who I seem
to have become. The difference between the two frightens me, and I’m not used to being afraid.”

“Like I said before, you did what you had to do,” Linda told him. “And like I’ve said before, you’re a strong man. The question
becomes, are you strong enough to keep what you’ve done from eating you up inside?”

Gold didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he turned toward the jetliner’s window. The plastic oval looking out onto the night
reflected the lit cabin’s interior, and within that murky cameo of plastic Gold saw his own features. The cabin’s recessed,
dimmed lighting bleached the little color that was left to his thinning, blond hair, and brought out the lines in his face,
so that Gold could hardly recognize the man staring back at him….

I look so old.
Gold brooded as he studied the image caught against the blackness some 40,000 feet above the turbulent Atlantic.
My God, I look like my father….

Gold, turning away from his reflection, said, “I’ll get over it.”

“Promise?” Linda coaxed.

“It’s only business,” Gold said.

Linda laughed, squeezing his hand. For her sake, Gold forced a smile, not that he thought anything was particularly funny.

(One)

Downtown Los Angeles, California

11 September, 1974

The fire-engine-red Corvette convertible’s twin exhausts rumbled like thunder as Steve Gold weaved his way through the tangled
downtown traffic. Gold, the wind blowing through his hair as he cruised along Sunset Boulevard, saw a clear stretch of left
lane and got the ‘Vette up to fifty, but then some clown up ahead doing thirty in a shit-brown Mercedes evidently spotted
Gold coming, and decided to appoint himself traffic cop. As the Corvette approached, the Mercedes veered left while maintaining
its sedate speed to keep Gold from passing. Shut down. Gold hit the brakes, downshifting and cursing, but then he saw that
he had just enough room to squeeze by on the right, and made his move.

The Stingray’s tires squealed, leaving rubber patches as the roadster’s rear end fishtailed. Gold felt the kick in his pants
reminiscent of a jet fighter’s afterburn as he was pressed back against the custom-installed Recaro racing bucket. The Mercedes
driver, some old dude in a plaid golf cap, leaned on his horn, glaring at Gold as the Sting Ray zoomed past with just inches
to spare between the Mercedes’ passenger side and a big yellow fire hydrant sticking out from the curb. Gold cut in sharply
in front of the Mercedes, then glanced in his rearview mirror to check his six. He saw the Mercedes driver waving his fist.
Gold waved back jauntily as he turned off the boulevard.

Passing on the right like that was certainly stupid and childish.
Gold thought, feeling a twinge of conscience. Then he smiled:
But that’s what made it fun.
After all, there was nothing quite as exhilarating as driving a powerful convertible on a sunny California day when you were
in a good mood.

First off, the 1971 Stingray certainly fit the definition of powerful. Gold had bought the ‘Vette new when he’d still been
in the Air Force and assigned to L.A. He’d stayed with the car because it had a big block engine with mechanical lifters;
1971 being the last year before the namby-pamby federal safety czars citing the oil embargo did their best to neuter the marque.

Secondly, it was certainly a doozy of a day: warm and sunny, with a hint of cooling breeze.

And thirdly, I’m certainly in a good mood.
Gold thought as he slowed to tool the Corvette down the ramp that led into the BADCO Towers underground parking garage. He
took off his Ray-Ban gold-rimmed Aviators as he went from the bright sunlight to the garage’s fluorescent lighting, thinking:
Oh, I’m in a wonderful mood. I’ve been looking forward to this for the entire summer.

He nosed the ‘Vette into a corner slot to protect it as best he could against dinks in her door panels from other drivers
who were careless getting out of their cars, and set the anti-theft alarm. He then took the elevator from the garage up to
the main lobby, where he switched to an express to the fiftieth floor. While he was riding up, he ran his fingers through
his sparse, close-cut hair and straightened his tie. He tried to smooth out some of the wrinkles in his tan linen suit, but
then he remembered that Linda had said these natural-fiber deals were supposed to look rumpled.

The elevator came to a stop and its doors opened. Gold stepped out and wandered down the corridor past various office suites
until he came to a glass door lettered: AGATHA HOLDING COMPANY.

Grinning savagely. Gold opened the door and strode inside. He looked around, gleefully satisfied to see the bare white walls
marked with ghostly rectangles where framed pictures had recently hung. A frazzled-looking but pretty freckle-faced redhead
was manning the reception desk which was surrounded by office furniture on dollies and cardboard packing boxes.

“Sir? Can I help you?” She looked surprised to see Gold, or any visitor for that matter. Gold surmised, but she was smiling
tentatively. Probably my animal magnetism, Gold thought. That, or the wrinkles in my suit.

“I’d like to see Tim Campbell.”

The redhead’s smile reversed into a puzzled frown. “But Mr. Campbell no longer…” She trailed off, flipping through the pages
of her appointment book. “Was Mr. Campbell expecting you?”

“No, but if you tell him Steven Gold is here, he’ll see me.”

“Just a moment, sir.”

Gold watched her reach for the telephone. She certainly had a lot of freckles, Gold thought. She was wearing a light-blue
patterned sundress with a scooped neckline that revealed her extensive cleavage. Gold could see a scattering of freckles across
the tops of her breasts, which made him wonder about the freckles he couldn’t see.

The redhead punched a three-digit extension number into the telephone and then held the receiver to her ear while she waited
for somebody on the other end to pick up. She noticed Gold gazing at her and smiled. Yes, definitely a lot of freckles, Gold
decided. It’d be a tough job counting them all, but somebody had to do it.

“Sir?” the redhead suddenly said into the receiver. “There’s a Mr. Steven Gold here to see Mr. Campbell. I don’t have him
in the appointment book….” She listened a moment and then hung up the telephone. “Mr. Campbell isn’t in—” she began.

Gold interrupted. “I bet he hasn’t been in for a while, right?”

She paused thoughtfully. “I really don’t know if I should say.…” Gold saw her looking him over, taking in the expensive cut
of his suit, her eyes tarrying at the gold Rolex on his wrist. “Then again, this is my last week here….” she trailed off expectantly.

Gold took out his wallet and extracted a business card. He picked up a pen from her desk and jotted on the back of the card
the name and phone number of a personnel manager at GAT.

“You call this person and mention my name,” Gold said. “I’m sure we can find something for you at my company.”

“Any strings attached to this offer, Mr. Gold?”

“No.”

“Oh.” She pouted, expertly using her blue eyes as she reached for the card. “Too bad.”

Gold grinned at her. She was cute, all right, and ripe for the taking, but since Linda Forrester had come back into his life.
Gold had amazingly found himself behaving in a monogamous fashion. Even more amazingly, he was liking it. Oh, sure, he still
liked to ogle, but he no longer had the desire to score on each day’s passing pretties. It had to be that he was in love with
Linda, Gold mused. Or burgeoning old age.

“You were going to tell me when Tim Campbell was here last,” Gold coaxed.

The redhead tucked his business card into her purse, confiding, “He hasn’t been in since midsummer.”

Gold nodded. Now that he thought about it, it made sense that Campbell, who had other fish to fry throughout the world, would
have long ago deserted this sinking ship. Meanwhile, it had been an exciting and lucrative summer for GAT.

The airlines had enthusiastically embraced GAT Credit Corporation’s financing offer. GAT didn’t come close to cornering the
jetliner market with the Pont, but then, there were a lot of good airplanes out there available from various manufacturers.
GAT did get enough orders to feel confident about eventually turning a profit on the Pont, and for at least the next eighteen
months to two years, GAT’s commercial aircraft division’s assembly lines would be operating full-time building the Skytrain
jetliner. That happy situation, combined with GAT’s military contract firmed up over the summer to supply the Air Force with
six hundred Stiletto fighters over a five-year period, had the company sitting pretty.

“The fact that Mr. Campbell hasn’t been here in so long was why I was so surprised when you asked for him, Mr. Gold,” the
redhead was explaining. “But Mr. Layten will see you.”

“That’s right.” Gold chuckled. “I heard Turner Layten had signed on with Campbell. Yeah, old Turner will do just fine.”

“It’s just through that door, sir,” the receptionist said, pointing over her shoulder. “Then you go down the hall. Mr. Layten’s
office is on the left.” She smiled apologetically. “I’d show you the way, but I have to stay at my desk in case the movers
come.”

“No one else here but you and Layten?” Gold asked.

“No, sir. We’re shutting down operations, you see….”

“You call that number I gave you,” Gold reminded her. “We’ll get you set up at a
decent
place for a change.”

He went through the door she’d indicated. His footsteps echoed in the carpetless corridor which was lined with more packing
cases on both sides, so that Gold had to walk sideways through the narrowed passage.

“In here,” Turner Layten called as Gold sidled past his open doorway.

“Hello, Turner.” Gold stepped inside the large office.

Layten nodded warily. He’d stood up behind his desk, but made no offer to shake hands.

Gold looked around. Like the rest of Agatha Holding, the place was in a shambles. There were large, potted palms on dollies,
rolled-up Oriental scatter rugs, more of the ubiquitous cardboard shipping crates, and a partially disassembled glass display
case filled with intricately detailed miniature soldiers.

“I see you’re dressing more casually than I remember.” Gold gestured at Layten’s yellow, short-sleeve, open-neck shirt-jac,
and muted plaid green-and-black slacks. “That’s a new look for you, huh?”

Gold hadn’t seen Turner Layten for over ten years, and was shocked at how much the man had aged.
But then, haven’t we all,
Gold thought sadly. Layten was still built wide in the hips and narrow in the shoulders, with lank dark hair and a jowled
baby face, but these days there was gray seeding Lay-ten’s hair, and the guy had grown a couple more double chins.